


You Count Everything

by rachel6141997



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Catholic!Molly, F/M, Fluff, Molly is awesome, More Fluff, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Romance, Sherlock is secretly an idiot when it comes to girls + guys, Sherlolly - Freeform, Torture, angst oh the angst, john is awesome, no smut ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-11-02
Packaged: 2017-11-17 09:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachel6141997/pseuds/rachel6141997
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly counts. But just how much, no one knows. Not even Sherlock.</p>
<p>Or, Sherlock finally realizes that he's a guy, and Molly's a girl, and everything that that implies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So....This may or may not be analogous with another fic I'm writing, more Sherlolly, but Molly is devout Catholic (fun!). Haven't decided yet.
> 
> Sorry about the violence, but everyone agrees that Moran is a sadistic bastard, so.....
> 
> No rape, though. I put my line at that and made Moran gay.
> 
> Um, yeah. I put a lot of favorite plot bunnies in this, so try not to hate on it too much.
> 
> AND COMMENT   
> PLEASE  
> PLEASE  
> PLEASE.
> 
> Thank you.

In the end, it’s quite simple really; as simple as a smile when you walk in, or a cup of coffee, black with two sugars, or always helping you, even when she has a lunch date.

In the end, it’s quite complicated, really; as complicated as a forged certificate of death, as seeing you when no one else does, as sneaking you body parts and loving you although you always see the most horrible things.

In the end, all you know is one thing- she isn’t what you thought she is, this mouse-like woman who blushes like a school girl when you compliment her, who is so timid and shy around you that you never stopped to wonder at how she gained this job and this position and this degree, _Dr._ Molly Hooper, if she didn’t have a steel spine and an icy glare and a frighteningly high IQ.

In the end, all you know is that when it really counts, you know _nothing_ , because it isn’t Mycroft with his government power and highly trained minions who saves you; it isn’t Gregory Lestrade, poor bumbling inspector who’s so much better than you would ever tell him. It isn’t Mrs. Hudson, cheerful, faithful, clever and clueless Mrs. Hudson, who is your landlady and not your housekeeper. And no, it isn’t even John, who’s an idiot who’s so much brighter than the rest, the one who really tries to understand, and who never runs away, crackshot soldier who’s killed without hesitation but never without compunction, honorable principled, your unrivaled conscience, assistant, the one and only person you have ever called a friend.

 

In the end, the one who saves them all, and most especially you is Molly Hooper. Timid, with a hopeless crush. Invisible and relied on. The one who always saw but never said, the one who thinks she never counted but always had, even when you didn’t realized it yourself.

 

Everyone underestimates Molly Hooper- Moriarty, John, Greg, Mycroft, you, and even Molly herself. You never saw her for what she was before, and so neither did Moriarty, and that is why, when there is no other recourse, you turn around in desperation to see her, with her smile and her sweaters, and her lumpy clothes that hide her figure, and _her_.

In the end, when she asks what you need, you tell her.

“You.”

 

And it is true, more true than either you or she knows, or will know, in the long days that follow- days that turn to weeks, and then to months, and then to years, as you struggle to take down what remains of Moriarty’s network. You don’t realize it when you stay at her flat those first few weeks, or when you show up in the middle of the night, bleeding  and in need of stitches. You don’t realize it even when you install surveillance at her flat, or when you watch painfully as she lies to everyone about him- Mycroft, Greg, John- you don’t realize it until that fatal night when your enemies discover your one link to the world above ground.

 

*SH*

 

You are stalking the last great link in Moriarty’s shadow network- his second in command, Sebastian Moran. You are close, you know it, and although your breathing in steady, your pulse normal, and the hand clutching your gun does not shake, you can feel the adrenaline running through you. You throw open the door, sending a spread of shots through, and hear nothing but silence. The haze clears from your eyes and you stare at the scene before you.

 

The room is empty bur for a single table, on which is spread several photographs. You stomach sinks as you take them in. The first row is pictures of you, blurred, but clear enough to show your agitation, looking back over your shoulder constantly.  The last picture of you shows you outside Molly’s flat. The second, third, and fourth rows are of Molly.

Molly, laughing. Molly scowling. Molly waving her arms around, gesticulating wildly with a clipboard as she tells off a young intern, who cowers before her rage. Molly sitting at a table with Greg and John, a shadow across her face, and guilt hidden deep within her eyes. Molly, Molly, Molly.

 

The fourth row shows her nervous. The change is slight, but she frowns, and looks over her shoulders. The very last shot shows her looking directly at the camera, face stony and bland, but in her eyes you can see her fear.

 

Your hands are shaking, now. You hear someone start to laugh, and whirl around, but the room is still empty. You follow the sound and find the package taped to the bottom of the table. You tear it open, catching the tablet in your hand.

 

Moran. You recognize his face as he laughs at you. You know your expression is bland, cold, uncaring. You have trained it to be so.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he says, softly. “You beat Moriarty, but you shan’t beat me.”

“ _Really_ ,” you say, drawing an eyebrow up, your contempt evident in your voice.  You expect him to grow angry- his profile suggests he would- but he just laughs again.

“Oh, yes. You see, you were a little careless in keeping your pet safe, and I’m afraid she got a little lost. So, like any good citizen, when I found her wandering, I took her in to keep her safe. I kept waiting, and waiting, for you to come and claim her, but you never did. I may have to keep her. Finders Keepers, you know.”

 

You feel sick, because you haven’t checked the cameras on her flat recently. You had stopped after discovering that you would watch her just for the sake of watching her, and had avoided the cameras since. Now you wish you hadn’t.

You don’t let any of this show, however. That would play into Moran’s hands.

“I haven’t any idea what you’re talking about, Moran.”

“Oh dear, we can’t have that, now can we? Perhaps this will jog your memory, my dear Sherlock.” He smiles nastily, and the camera turns.

 

Molly is there, tied to a chair, head down so that her hair fell across her face. She looks up, and her expression is dead, lifeless. Her eyes hold no emotion. The worst, though, is the that she wears a simple shift- once white, but now stained red with blood. Blood drips down slowly into a pool on the floor.

 

You raise an eyebrow.

“You have an interesting idea of what “safe” means, Moran. Nonetheless, despite your tender care, I’m afraid I must collect Molly. That would, of course, be easier if you could bring yourself to inform me of your whereabouts…” Moran laughs.

“Of course, my friend. Where are we- or, rather, where will we be? Why, where it all began. Carl Powers, remember? Time- I will see you four days from now- on the third anniversary of your Fall.” You do remember, only too well. Same situation. Hostages.

“I will see you there, then.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

 

*SH*

 

It doesn’t take long for you to decide. Numbly, you walk from the abandoned warehouse, hire a cab, and say, softly, “221B, Baker Street, please.” The cab driver looks at you askance- the address is famous, and although he does not recognize you in your disguise, you don’t exactly look dapper, in ragged clothes, with a purpling bruise on your right cheek and a long scrape on the other. But he shrugs and drives.

 

You step lightly up the familiar stairs, and knock on the door, fear clenching your stomach- not just for Molly but for John, who has finally begun to heal, has finally been able to return to the old flat.

 

He opens the door; takes a look at you. His eyes grow round- you finally understand the idiom “eyes popping out”- and he faints. He recognized you easily- best friends, platonic soul mates, if such a thing existed. You catch him and shift him over onto the couch, but within seconds he comes to, and he hurtles off the sofa, his face going from chalk white to red in moments.

“You- Fucking-Bugger! Bloody HELL!” He keeps on yelling, for several minutes, you just stand there, eyes closed, taking it in, hating yourself for what you did. Then he punches you. Once on the left cheek, and when your eyes fly open and you topple backwards, he grabs you by your shirt collar and punches your other cheek as well.

 

Then he pulls you close and holds you, tightly, crying. You have never much cared for people touching you, but for once, you want it and even need it, clutching John back. When he pulls away, his mouth opens for questions, and you screw your eyes shut, knowing what had to happen.

 

“How- Why-“

 

“I’m sorry John, there’s no time.” On any other occasion, this would have set him off, and he would have argued and shouted, but despite your best efforts, fear leaks into your voice and he shuts up and looks at you.

 

“I’ve spent the last three years dismantling Moriarty’s network, but there’s one link left. Sebastian Moran, ex-army sergeant dishonorably discharged, Moriarty’s second in command, and, quite possibly, lover. I was close to finding him, but he found me first. John- he has Molly.”

“Molly?” He’s stunned, confused, unable to comprehend how the mousy Pathologist could be involved. You take in a deep breath and back up a couple steps.

“She was my contact, and now he’s kidnapped her, and probably tortured her. I need your help, John. I can’t save her on my own.” He looks at you then, takes a step back, and exhales heavily, looking around and slapping his hand on his thigh.

 

“Right then. Ok. Where’s my gun?” You point to the mantle, and almost laugh, because, for an instant, it’s like the old days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Section breaks tell the pov using initials. Only one clarification needed, I think:  
> MH=Mycroft Holmes  
> DMH= Doctor Molly Hooper

 

*GL*

 

You though you would be either fired or assigned a permanent paper pushing jobs, those first few  months after Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof. It was a living hell. Your wife finally signed the divorce papers- luckily, you got almost all the assets because you had sued first for divorce based on grounds of adultery and because your job had supported you- but you were facing a review board.

 

Until an anonymous package had arrived at the doorstep of New Scotland Yard, containing the evidence that vindicated Sherlock, and, by extension, you. Sheet after sheet of newspaper clippings detailing Moriarty’s early exploits, recordings of how the villain had threatened the jury, photos of the dramatic battle at the pool between Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Moriarty.

 

With this discovery, news filtered through of more evidence- which, apparently, had been at first covered up. On the roof, next to Moriarty’s body, Sherlock’s phone was found with a voice recording of his final conversation with Moriarty, detailing his threats.

 

The prosecution tried to make a case that the evidence was false and tampered with, but quick as public opinion had turned against Sherlock, it now turned in his favor, now that the annoying bastard was no longer there to dispel people’s idealizations of him.

 

And that is the crux of the matter, you think, three years later, as you sit in your familiar desk. He was vindicated, but Sherlock was dead, and would never know it. And John and the rest of his friends are left to mourn. You don’t know why Sherlock is on your mind today. Perhaps it was the unusual case that came in today- a young woman found tied in a chair in the middle of a field, with no memory of how she got there, or why she was dressed in a Victorian outfit, or why her hair had been shaved off and woven into a rope tied about her waist.

 

You haven’t any idea about it, although you have improved enormously as a detective since Sherlock’s fall. It is almost as though the detective has come to haunt your brain, giving you niggling reminders that something was off, that one piece of evidence didn’t quite fit.

It probably helped that when you were suspended from duty in those first few weeks you entertained yourself by actually _reading_ his website, _The Science of Deduction_ , which apparently actually was a science, even if those of ordinary intelligence couldn’t hope to compare to the original.

 

Your phone rings, and you jump, startled. It’s John, and you wince. Timing, of course.

“John?”

“Hey, Greg. Do you trust me?”

“ _What?_ ” You’re almost too startled to notice that for the first time in three years John sounds…well, happy. Not like, I have no worries, happy- there was a certain amount of strain there- but the sadness in John Watson’s voice since Sherlock jumped was gone.

“Do you trust me? Enough to act on a tip I give you without explanation?” Your mind is whirling; there’s one possibility that you hardly dare to think about- but you do trust John.

“Yes, John. I trust you. What’s happened?”

“Two days from now, a criminal will bring a captive to a certain location. The criminal is Sebastian Moran, and the captive is Molly Hooper.” Your face goes pale- it isn’t just that you love Molly like a sister- you’d thought about dating her in the last three years, but your relationship is different and it didn’t work out- but the name Moran sends a chill through you. Even if you hadn’t seen the files on Moriarty and known his close association with Moran, the sharpshooter’s name was legendary in the criminal underworld, and thus inside NSY as well.

 

John tells you what he needs you to do, and you jump to it. Sally and Anderson back you up. Even though they hated Sherlock, John is, and has always been- well, John.

 

*MH*

 

You are sitting at your desk when Anthea rushes in. You look at her. Even though your relationship is far deeper than that of employee and employer, and even that of bodyguard and charge, she has always knocked. Always.

 

Except when it had to do with Sherlock.

“Mycroft, now, it’s- it’s-“ words fail her, and you get up. Some part of you knows, but the majority of you says that you saw his body, and Sherlock could never fool _you_.

And yet. There he stands, in your living room, somehow returned from death. Or, rather, returned from fake death.

“Sherlock,” you manage, but get no farther. You don’t really need to- he meets your eyes, and it’s the kind of instantaneous communication you haven’t had in years- not since you were fourteen and him seven, and you were inseparable, back before you had to go to University and he fell into drugs.

_I’m so sorry, Mycroft._

_I love you, you know._

_Yes, I do know. As soppy and_ sentimental _as that is._

 

You laugh at that, a light sound you haven’t heard in years. Not since you checked him into rehab, hating yourself for the look of angry betrayal in his eyes. Then your shock wears off and it hits you.

“What have you done to poor Dr. Hooper?” He flinches and looks away.

“Moran caught her, to get to me. I need  your help.” _To get to me._ Your brother has fallen prey to sentiment at last, and it might just be the saving of him.

 

You extend your hand.

 

*DMH*

 

Pain.

 

A red haze across your eyes, trapped.

 

_Sherlock._

 

*JW*

 

In the end, Sherlock’s brilliant plan appears to be to go in, guns blazing.

As you _are_ a former army doctor, this plan holds a certain appeal to it- not that you’d ever admit it.

 

Sherlock could probably deduce it anyway.

 

A bubble of hilarity rises in your throat, because he’s alive, and he’s a bastard, and he’s alive, and, apparently, he’s _fallen in love._ Not that he can see it, of course.  But you know the signs. You saw them in Molly, and in Sally when she looked at Lestrade, and he had seen them in his parents faces, before they had died.

 

You need to save Molly. So on the third anniversary of Sherlock’s fall, instead of the bitter taste of alcohol, you find instead the sharp and salty tang of blood as you engage in a do or die battle with Moran and his minions.

 

It isn’t complicated- it’s the best of M16, the best of NSY, and Sherlock and yourself, pitted against a sadistic bastard who never did have Moriarty’s flare, who, the file says, prefers a bloodbath to a game of chess any day.

 

You win, although not without a heavy cost.

 

You and Sherlock burst through the final door, to see Moran and Molly, alone, at the far end of a long hall.

 

Moran pays no attention to you- he is too busy with his knife.

You feel sick, not least of all to see what he’s done to Molly. Your friend.  Sherlock’s friend. His love.

You can’t help your glance at his face. Emptiness… guilt. Rage.

 

Moran goes down laughing, shot three times in the chest, hands bloody, knife laid across Molly’s barely moving chest.

 

*SH*

 

If, before John, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and _Molly_ , you had never known how to love one person- except Mycroft- there is at least some consolation that, apart from your father, you had never known how to properly hate, either.

 

You do now.

 

Moriarty, you understood. He threatened to kill your friends because he wanted to destroy you, to beat you utterly and completely. To him, it was about the game.

 

Moran kidnapped and tortured Molly to get at you, yes, but to him- to him, it was the pain. He was truly a sadist, relishing in hurting Molly. He is truly a sadist, relishing, even as he dies, the _pain_ that, surely, he can see, in every line of your body, in the wordless shout of rage. Surely, they can see- everyone who has come running in after you, far, far too late- surely they can see the fire, the unimaginable agony.

 

You want it to stop.

 

You want to turn and see Molly whole- alive, laughing, snarling at you for stepping on her cat.

 

You get one out of three wishes. She is alive, just barely, unconscious, unresponsive.

She is taken to the emergency room, and given the best of care, courtesy of your brother.

 

You wait.

And wait.

And wait.

 

Her body heals, but her soul is far away. The doctors tell you she is in a coma.

 

You consider jumping off the roof again.

This time for real.

 

But no- even though it’s been over forty-eight hours, the usual length if they will wake up again, she might still wake, and she needs to find you there. You need to be there.

 

You need her to wake up.

 

_Molly. Wake up. Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter-sorry it's so short. It was originally meant to be a drabble, but I got carried away. :)  
> If you're hungry for more however, I also wrote a Sherlock drabble called "Crack Babies".
> 
> And there WILL be more Sherlolly forth coming, a proper longish fic. Which may or may not ever be finished. :P
> 
> Thank you for humoring these poor plot bunnies of mine.
> 
> Comments are appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

*DMH*

 

Pain, always. You slip away and sink down, far, far away from the pain.

You are a doctor, after all, and while comas have never been your specialty, some part of you knows that this is what it is.

It also helps that you can hear other doctors, medical doctors, discuss your condition above your head, although you can’t seem to snap irritably at them like you want to.

 

At some point you try, so hard, so hard, to reconnect with your body. You manage it, but slip away, because of the pain.

 

The pain. Always, constant, present. It knows you intimately, like the lover you have never had. Maybe you never will.

 

You can still hear. People come in and out, voices filter through the darkness. Some you don’t recognize. Others you do.

 

There is one voice you never hear.

 

*JW*

 

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, just go in and see her already!” Your flat mate is lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He’s been like this for days, ever since the doctors told you there was very little chance of Molly resurfacing at this point.

“Her body’s healing fine, and in time she will be fully recovered, physically, at least. But the shock has sent her into a coma, and she’s past the point where recovery is likely,” the dark skinned doctor had told you, casting a glance at Sherlock’s stony expression, and laying a compassionate hand on your forearm. You had smiled painfully back at her- her name is Mary Morstan, you think.

 

You are tempted to threaten to fit him with an IV unit, because you fear Sherlock wouldn’t eat otherwise.

It isn’t long before you give in.

“Go away.”

“Go see Molly.”

“What good would it do?” You stare at him. Surely he knew that comatose people could often hear conversations about them- but, then, this is the man who mixed up the Solar System. You shake your head ruefully, and threaten to sic Mycroft on him.

 

At this he sits up, glares at you balefully, and says, “You wouldn’t.”

“You know I would,” you deadpan, even though you really wouldn’t. He lies back down again. You scowl, and decide to take another tack.

“You’re afraid.”

“What?” He sits up again, plainly startled.

“You’re terrified, because you have _feelings_ for her and don’t think you can face her in a _coma_.” The disgust in your voice is evident, and he looks like he can’t decide to be horrified, offended, or incredulous. He settles for all three.

“John, I do not understand what you are talking about. I do not have “feelings” for Molly Hooper, and I am certainly not afraid to see her in a coma!”

“Prove it.” Your voice is flat, challenging, and he blinks at you. “Prove it. Come with me to the hospital and prove you’re not afraid.” It’s a dirty game, you’re playing, and you’re gambling on assumption that he either cares for your opinion to align with his, or that he won’t call your bluff.

 

He glares at you again, and slides off the couch and into his slippers.

“I hate you.”

“I know,” you say, smirking. Then, as he walks towards the door, you realize belatedly he’s wearing a bathrobe.

“Sherlock! You _cannot_ go to the hospital dressed like that!” He ignores you, and you think, _Hell. I’m talking to the man who went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet._

_And nothing else._

 

*GL*

 

You’re sitting by Molly’s bedside when John and Sherlock arrive. The latter pops in, takes a peek, and says ungraciously, “There, John. I saw her in a coma, now leave me alone.” He then promptly disappeared. John scowls.

“God, Greg, he’s such a git.” You snort.

“What is it, State the Obvious Day? Or have you belatedly come to a conclusion everyone else reached ages ago?” The irony falls flat, and your ribbing is half-hearted. John laughs weakly and slumps into the chair on the other side of the bed.

 

“Hey, Molly. How are you today?” he says gently. “Everything’s fine at Baker Street, although Sherlock is being even more of an arse than usual. I’m sorry he won’t visit, but you know as well as anyone how bloody immature he can be.” Molly’s lips twitch, and you smile. It’s the little signs of responsiveness like those that remind you that there’s still hope. John looks over at you.

 

“Hey, Greg. How’s life at NSY?”

“Same as usual. It’s awfully dull without Sherlock barging in. It’s like he never came back in the first place. He still hasn’t taken a look at that case I offered him. And it was at least a nine. I mean, come on. It was genuine Victorian dress, not some fancy costume. I didn’t even know they still existed outside of museums.” John snorts.

 

“He’s too wrapped up in his own bloody issues. Hell, you’d think he’d just grows some bollocks already and say hello.”

“He’s always been an arse, John, and I daresay he always will be.”

“You can say that again.”

“He’s always been an arse, John, and I daresay he always will be.” John scowls at you good-naturedly and throws a mock punch. You duck, laughing, and shove him gently. IT quickly escalates into friendly rough-housing, which is interrupted by a snide voice.

 

“Good Grief, Detective Inspector Lestrade throwing punches like a school boy. How very tedious.” You let John out of a headlock and scowl.

“Don’t be such an arse, Sherlock.”

“I’ve always been an arse, I daresay I always will be,” he says throwing your words back in your face. You flush, and shrug on your coat.

“I’d best be going. Goodbye, John. I’ll be back later, Molly,” you say, giving her hand a squeeze, and making your exit hurriedly, pointedly ignoring Sherlock.

 

You are still angry, to be frank. He was an ass, disappearing like that. John had been _so_ close to killing himself. And you. It hurt, horribly, that he hadn’t told you himself. He’s sworn John to secrecy, and let you find out when you had run in with your best men, to find him kneeling on the ground before Molly’s splayed body. It had been a double blow.

 

He was such an _arse_. A bloody, fucking, arse, at that.

 

*SH*

 

John looks at you with irritation.

“That was unkind, Sherlock. Come on, we’re leaving.”

“Finally. I want to check out this crime that’s supposedly a nine.” You ignore John’s disgusted look and sweep out.

 

You will _not_ look at her, lying broken on the bed.

 

*DMH*

 

The first time his voice filters through the fog, you feel like hitting him, because he’s being such a dick. And then you realize you can’t.

 

Sometimes, you want to wake up, so badly, more than anything else.

 

And other times, sinking deep into oblivion sounds like Heaven.

 

On occasion, you wish you could die.

And then you don’t, because you keep seeing their faces, horrified. John, Greg, your mother.

 

You don’t see his face, because no matter how much he says you count you know that you are completely invisible to him. If you weren’t, surely he would have come by now. John has, at least fifteen times, and Greg more times than she can count. You are vaguely aware of the passage of time, but everything feels so disconnected.

 

Days slip by, and you are often privy to little quirks of your friends you never imagined, before. Like the way Greg always clears his throat self-consciously when he reads aloud to her, and the way his choices are almost always poetry. Usually Keats, or Robert Frost. John reads her Shakespeare. Always the comedies. And he cracks his knuckles and hums the soundtrack to Star Wars when he is thinking. Sally reads poetry too. And writes her own- suspiciously sounding like they might be about a certain Detective Inspector.

 

She listens as John falls in love with the doctor who watches over her, Mary Morstan. She knows it is no coincidence that Dr Morstan always comes around when John is there, and often stays to chat. She would smile if she could.

 

It is constant blackness. She is spared only her hearing, and the occasional sensation of someone holding her hand, or smoothing back the hair from her face. She thinks she could be great friends with Mary Morstan, if she wasn’t trapped in the darkness.

 

When it is night, and there are no sounds, and you are alone, you feel confined.

 

Those are the times you want to escape, when you send up prayer after prayer to heaven. _Oh God, please help me. Please._

You struggle, and you almost make it, but at the last step, you always hesitate. Stop. Sink back into oblivion.

 

You are afraid of the pain.

 

You don’t think there is anything that can convince you to risk it.

 

*SH*

 

In the end, you can’t stand it.

 

In the end, you find yourself by her side, in a rare moment when no one else is around.

 

“Molly,” you whisper, your heart in your throat.

 

Looking at her, she isn’t broken. Her injuries have long since healed in the long months since her captivity. She is asleep.

 

She looks like she always did when she crashed on her couch after a long day at the morgue- albeit with longer hair.

 

Her hair is spread out across her pillow like a crown of rays. You lift a lock, feeling the silkiness of it and marveling.

 

“Molly,” you say again, and your voice cracks. You cannot run from it or deny it any longer; the truth is staring you in the face.

 

You have fallen in love with Molly Hooper.

 

Ludicrous. But true.

 

Molly, with the spine of steel hidden under her mousy exterior. Molly, who always saw.

 

Molly, who always counted.

 

“You always counted,” you say, giving voice to your thoughts. “Always.” She is frowning, pensively- can she really hear you? You know intellectually she probably can, but seeing her so motionless seemingly disproves this. Her lips move, ever so slightly, but you could always read lips, and a chill runs down your spine.

 

_I never really counted. I don’t count at all._

“Yes, you do,” you say, voice sharp. “More than you could ever know.” You are squeezing her hand tightly, reflexively.

 

_More than you could ever know._

*DMH*

 

It is a long time before you hear his voice again. It is not harsh and cynical, like before. It is soft and filled with a raw honesty you have heard only once before.

_“You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay.”_   
_“ Tell me what's wrong.”_   
_“ Molly, I think I'm going to die.”_

_“What do you need?”_

_“If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am, would you still want to help me?”_

_“What do you need?”_

_“You.”_

He says it again, those awful words. Awful because you had dreamed of hearing them, awful because they weren’t, could never be true.

 

 _I never really counted. I don’t count at all,_ you practically shout at him. If you could cry, tears would be pouring down your face right now.

 

“Yes you do,” he says, his voice angry. “More than you could never know.” And you are angry, too, filled with a helpless rage and grief, because _he’s lying, he has to be. He can’t be telling the truth._ And you are so afraid.

 

Your hand is aching, because he grips it so tightly, and you feel a wetness on your cheeks.

_Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you to the farthest reaches of hell._

And you hear it, a hiss, broken and rough, but your words.

And you hear him, frantic, startled.

“Molly? Molly!” He cries out, voice raw. He’s shaking you. “Molly, please wake up, please. I need you. Please.”

 

You never could refuse Sherlock Holmes, and, besides, he’s actually saying _please_. You try, struggling to surface, and to reconnect. It’s so hard.

“Molly, I need you.”

The walls are closing in on you, dark and frightening, and you feel like you’re swimming up towards light. You are so close, so close, and then you’re free, and you’re sobbing, and clutching him and you’re _awake._

 

The first thing that hits you when you open your eyes is the light.

The second thing is Sherlock. He wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, your face held against his chest.

The third thing that hits you is an explosive _sneeze._

 

Lovely timing.

 

*SH*

 

She’s awake.

And dripping mucus on your shirt.

 

But that’s all transport.

 

She’s awake, and you wipe away her tears. You aren’t sure how it happened, but she is lying in your arms, her face pressed into your chest.

 

It’s a novel experience, to hold someone you love.

 

It’s an even more novel experience to realize that yes, you love her, and yes, there’s actually a fairly decent chance she still loves you back. Although that might change is you don’t let her breathe.

 

You loosen your embrace and ease her back onto the pillows, but she immediately pushes herself into a sitting position, staring at you. Her sobs have calmed, and she is looking at you as though you were a particularly interesting specimen.

 

You know that look. You’ve worn it often enough yourself.

 

When she speaks, it’s tentatively.

 

“You’re right, you know,” she says, echoing your words from earlier. You doubts it’s unconsciously. “I can’t know how much I count. Unless you tell me.”

 

It’s an open invitation. You have a feeling John would call it horribly romantic. Hell, you might even say so, if it wasn’t for the current state of your shirt. _Transport, Sherlock. Just transport._

 

You wonder what would happen if you lied.

 

You wonder what would happen if you told the truth.

 

Honesty is always the best policy.

 

“Everything, Molly. You count everything.” And then you kiss her, because it’s expected, and maybe even because you want to.

 

When you kiss her again, it’s definitely because you want to.

 

When you kiss her a third time, it’s because you want to, and because- as if you needed another reason!- it’s _far_ more preferable than to focusing on the stunned faces of one former army doctor and one DI from NSY.

 

Molly seems to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I over used the word arse.
> 
> And I have no Britpicker, so it's probably awful.
> 
> And I said three chapters when there is technically four. But it's a bonus! So be happy.
> 
> And don't ever expect me to be this quick ever again, but I was in a writing mood today, so stuff it.
> 
> And comment! Please!


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a couple extras, yes this is horribly cheesy, but deal with it.
> 
> I'm in a mood for cheese.

 

*JW*

 

You will never forget the sight of your best friend flat out snogging a newly reawakened Molly Hooper.

 

You also don’t think you will ever forget that in celebration of Molly’s awakening, Mary decided snogging would be good for them too.

 

But that’s alright. Some things are good to remember.

 

*GL*

 

If you have one regret about Molly waking up, and all that followed afterwards, it’s that you didn’t get to see it happen.

Although, the videotape of Sherlock and Molly’s “moment” went viral on Youtube.

 

*DMH*

 

Libido can come in handy, on occasion. As can religion.

In explanation, you very sweetly told Sherlock that as a devout, conservative Catholic, you believed in saving sex for marriage.

 

John laughed hysterically at the look on Sherlock’s face.

“Oh-God- Sherlock! Only you would find a sudden, burning desire for a member of the opposite sex, who just happens to believe in saving it for marriage! Oh, hell….”

 

It wasn’t long before you had a ring on your finger, and Sherlock is proving very tractable indeed, for fear you will call it off.

 

Oh, to find a shrew where he thought there was a mouse!

 

*MH*

 

You never thought you’d see your brother marry.

 

You especially didn’t think it would be before you.

 

But Molly Hooper is secretly a dragon, and you are truly happy as you watch the ceremony.

 

*SH*

 

You are completely and utterly under her spell.

 

You always  _knew_  sentiment was a chemical defect.

 

But, you think, as she smiles happily at you in front of the altar, maybe, just maybe, it’s all worth it.

 

_Because, Molly Hooper, you count everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned at the beginning that I'm also writing a Catholic!Molly Sherlolly fic, this IS NOT in the same universe, but it does have a similar concept. Because Catholic badass Molly is just WAY to fun.
> 
> Sorry if this was a little shitty.
> 
> And I didn't get to really develop my plot bunnies, but I promise I'll try harder next time!


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